


Your Heart, the Brightest Star

by Bur



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Fantasy Drug Use, M/M, Minor body dysphoria, Omega!Victor, Sexism, alpha!yuuri, this really isn't going to be all that bad despite the previous three tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:23:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bur/pseuds/Bur
Summary: The week after Viktor Nikiforov won his fifth consecutive Worlds, his medical records were leaked online and his career as a competitive skater came to an abrupt end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This thing is growing out of control, so may as well start posting it. I'm not sure how far it will go, but I've been working on this idea since around ep. 9. It's been way more fun than I thought it would be screwing with the balance of power between Victor and Yuuri.
> 
> I AM BECOME TRASH, POSTER OF TRASH.

“Vitya.”  Yakov’s voice was muffled through the closed door.

Victor brushed his long hair back from his face and stood from the heat room’s small cot on wobbling legs.  His lips felt dry and cracked as he ran his tongue over them  - dehydration.  He supposed that was his own fault.  The pitcher by his bedside was only half empty.

When had it gotten there, anyways?

“Coming, coming,” he said, forcing a sing-song lilt into his tired voice.  He was halfway to the door when he remembered he should put on clothes.  Normally he wouldn’t care, his body was nothing to be ashamed of, but his current state was…

He scratched at the dried slick on his thighs.

...well.  

What would be waiting for him on the other side of the door?  Would his beloved coach have forms of retirement waiting for him?  At only sixteen, was Victor to be pushed out of the spotlight to fade into obscurity, another talent wasted due to the unfortunate circumstance of his secondary gender?

Or, would Yakov have decided the other option was worth the risk.

Victor wasn’t sure which he preferred.  Both options were a lie.  To abandon his passion, or to abandon his flesh - but his choice would have to be made today.  They’d gotten so lucky that his first heat hadn’t hit until after Worlds.  His body’s own chemistry would’ve make it harder to hide the truth.  Scent neutralizing soaps failed after a hard practice, and the suppressors available in Russia, even in the black market, were notoriously unreliable.

It was almost like the country didn’t want its omegas to have lives of their own.

His mouth twisted up in a bitter smile as he tied his robe shut, but he forced it into a more carefree one as he opened the door.  “Yakov!” he greeted cheerfully, letting none of his exhaustion show,  “How have you been?  Did you review my proposed changes to my choreography?  I’m sure you had time since I wasn’t around pestering you.”

His coach, to his infinite credit, didn’t even flinch at what must’ve been quite a smell blasting out of the heat room.  Of course he wouldn’t.  Although Yakov was a beta, his ex-wife was an omega, if a particularly terrifying one.

But, as terrifying as she was, even Lilia Baranovskaya had gone into an omega-friendly profession, thriving even under the stigma of parting ways with her mate.

Ah, there was a possibility.

No.

Lilia would not be as tolerant of him as his dear coach.  She would kill him long before she made him a proper ballerino.  If Yakov passed him on to her, it would mean that he thought Victor better off dead, but didn’t have the will to do the deed himself.

“Vitya, be serious outside of the rink for once.  We both knew this day was coming, and now that it’s here—,” he broke off with a sigh.  “I had hoped that we’d all been mistaken about your secondary gender.  Your talent is too much to go to waste because of something like this.”

Victor’s smile grew more genuine.  It was hard to pull that kind of praise out of Yakov, and it felt good even if it took his potential ruin to pull it out of the sour man.

Yakov dug his hand deep into his coat pocket and pulled out an opaque, white plastic bottle.  “Alpha growth hormones,” he said.  “You remember what I told you?”

“Yes.”  Victor crossed his arms.  God, his thighs itched.  He hoped this wouldn’t take much longer so he could shower and either go home to his Makkachin or to the rink to skate until he passed out.  “I start now, I get taller, I put on more muscle, my fat distribution changes.  My scent should become indistinguishable from an alpha’s by the time the next season starts,” he rattled off.  “A good chance of no heats while in use, probable sterility with long term use.  Other long-term side effects unknown due to lack of research on omegas.  Did I remember it all?”

“Vitya, if you accept this, you also say farewell to any life outside of skating.  Only myself and Lilia know you’re an omega.  This will be a secret you keep from your friends, from any family you still talk to.  You cannot take a lover; they would notice parts of your body don’t match what you’re presenting yourself as.  The world will always be at arm’s length from you.  And when this comes out, you will have to give up your home.  It will be impossible to stay in Russia.”

“You mean ‘if’,” Victor said.  These didn’t seem big sacrifices when weighed against his passions.  It wasn’t as if he was all that close to anyone outside of his coach and his dog.

“When.  You think this can be hidden forever?”  Yakov shook his head.  “The longer the charade goes on, the worse the reaction.  To find out a celebrated athlete is nothing more than a drugged up omega, it would be the worst kind of embarrassment.”

Yakov was right, of course.  Russia was a beautiful country, but it wasn’t the kindest.  If he made it even a couple more seasons he would consider himself lucky, and when the curtain was drawn back and all his secrets revealed, the people who loved and admired him would turn and bare their teeth.

“Yakov,” Victor brought the knuckle of his index finger up to his mouth and bit it nervously, “won’t this also ruin your career?”

“I will disavow all knowledge and place the fault entirely on your shoulders,” Yakov answered bluntly.  “Our relationship will end.”

“I should have expected nothing less from you,” Victor said, smile returning to his face.  Good.  He didn’t want anyone else hurt by his choice.  His selfish choice, though there was nothing inherently wrong with that.  Sometimes it was right to be selfish.  After all, it wasn’t as if anyone else was going to be selfish for him.

He held his hand out for the bottle.

***

On the one hand, it was a miracle that ought to be confirmed by the Moscow Patriachate itself that Victor’s AGH use had remained undetected nearly until retirement.  He’d been coming up on eleven years.  Some of the youngest skaters were already calling him a grandpa, gaping that he could keep going at his terminally advanced age of twenty-seven.  Perhaps it was for the best that he left the spotlight before his increasingly aching joints betrayed him in the rink and he disgraced himself.

On the other, he was having to sleep on Georgi’s couch while _Carabosse_ blasted out through the man’s bedroom door with a ferocity that should have neighbors phoning in complaints any minute.

Victor let his head rest back on plush arm of the couch.  This was his true punishment for daring to be more than he was born to be, Tchaikovsky unexpectedly assuming the role of an evil witch and cursing him with a throbbing headache.

On the topic of miracles, Victor was still stunned that Georgi had offered his couch in the first place.  They were rinkmates, yes, and the beta had everything to gain from Victor’s expulsion, but where Victor expected Georgi to be angry over years spent being bested by an inferior secondary gender, he’d merely said, “If you go back to your apartment now, the reporters will eat you alive.”

Yakov was supposed to stop by there and get Makkachin later tonight, along with his passport.  His dear coach’s parting gift, he supposed.  He’d already seen the press release where Yakov had denied knowing about Victor’s AGH use and was surprised as anyone to find he was not an alpha.  After this, he supposed he’d never see Yakov again.

Unlike him, Yakov always remembered his promises.

He rolled over, pressing his spine into the back cushions of the couch.  Georgi’s couch was comfortable, but he felt so _restless_ , like beetles were crawling on the underside of  his skin.  He hoped Yakov wouldn’t be much longer.  Victor know he wouldn’t feel settled enough to sleep until Makkachin was in his arms.

Against his better judgement, Victor pulled out his phone and opened his news feed, scrolling through the headlines.  He was the talk of the evening, naturally.  

_Russia’s Top Skater Caught Doping_

_Nikiforov’s Medical Records Reveal Shocking Secret!_

_AGH Epidemic Rampages in Athletic Communities_

_Should Doctors Physically Examine Athletes to Confirm Their Secondary Gender?_

_Debate Rages About Validity of Nikiforov’s Medals_

Victor supposes he should have expected that last one.  Irritation and anger bubbled up through the protective layers of emotional shock he’d wrapped himself in.  He’d worked hard for each of those wins.  AGH couldn’t give him technique, or balance, or showmanship.  Perhaps it helped with the stamina and strength required to pull off the program, but it took far more than physical ability to win a competition.

_Tch._

He scrolled down further, past skating analysis that was still trickling in from Worlds, past recordings of the more memorable programs, to -

_Trending:  Katsuki Yuuri Tries to Skate Victor Nikiforov’s FS_.  The timestamp of the video was the same as the final night of the Worlds, just a week ago.

Huh.

Katsuki was the Japanese skater who’d choked at the Grand Prix Finals.  If there was anyone who’d been suspected of secretly being an omega among the world-class skaters, it was Katsuki.  Victor didn’t know how much of it was his heritage, but the man had looked the part with his smaller build and delicate features.  And then there were his obvious nerves.  Omegas had a stereotype, and Katsuki fit it far better than Victor did.

Until he got drunk, that was.  Then, his status as an alpha was unquestionable.  Minus his inhibitions (and his clothes), Katsuki was… _intoxicating_.  If there’d been a night where he’d wanted to throw everything away for a one night stand, last year’s Grand Prix Banquet was it.  Despite being under the impression Victor was a fellow alpha, Katsuki had approached him and completely dominated him, tearing down Victor’s defenses like they were wet tissue paper and all but made him submit right there on the ballroom floor.

He would have kissed his career goodbye a happy man if it meant he got to be manhandled and marked by Katsuki.  For a while he’d been able to forget how empty his life was outside the rink.

The joke of it was, his skating career only lasted three more months anyways.  There was a lesson there to be learned, somewhere.

He was curious.  Who was going to skate his program?  Would it be the nervous, milk-and-water Katsuki who’d crumpled under the pressure of the GPF, or would it be the bold, passionate Katsuki who’d lead him on the dance of Victor’s life?

He put in his earphones and tapped “play”.

***

When Yakov came by with Makkachin, his passport, and, surprisingly, a large case of clothing, Victor asked, “Do you remember Yuuri Katsuki?”

Yakov harrumphed.  “That Japanese alpha who can’t hold his drink?”  He was clearly unimpressed, his jowls sagging lower than usual.

“He asked me to be his coach at the banquet.  I think I’ll take him up on it.”

Yakov’s jowls drooped another inch.  “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.  Did all those years of pills damage your head, boy?”

“The way he skated my program,” Victor continued, eyes brightening, “it wasn’t perfect, but there’s so much potential, Yakov.  The music flowed from his body as he skated.  If he could bring that to competition…,” he trailed off as Makkachin jumped up onto the couch next to him and settled his head in Victor’s lap.

“He was _drunk_ , Vitya, and you have no idea if he’d be so willing to have you now.”

There was that, yes.  Somehow this new complication in Victor’s life kept slipping from his thoughts, like his mind couldn’t quite process what had happened.  There were facts, yes.  These he had a firm grip of: he was outed as an omega, his competitive career was over.

It was the less immediate consequences he was having trouble with.  Where was he supposed to go with his life?  Did he still have any friends?

…did he ever have any friends?

There were PMs from his fellow skaters, but he’d been loathe, no, scared to open them.  Even the ones from skaters in countries more accepting of an omega’s ambition than Russia, like Chris.

Victor realized with a start he had no idea how Japan treated their omega citizens.  He never had any reason to look before now.  

What did Yuuri Katsuki think of him now?

He imagined those deep, brown eyes that’d been so full of joy and admiration looking at him with disdain instead and shivered, goosebumps traveling up his arms.

Victor folded his arms across his front to try and hid his reaction to his own thoughts.  “Katsuki said his family runs a hot springs resort.  If he turns me down, at least I’d be at a nice place far away from the press.  I can’t stay on Georgi’s couch forever.”

Through Georgi’s door _Apothéose_ ended and _Sleeping Beauty_ began once more from the beginning.

Victor _really_ couldn’t stay on Georgi’s couch forever.

“I see your point,” Yakov conceded.  Victor couldn’t tell if he was referring to Victor’s strategic retreat to Japan, or to Georgi’s current musical obsession.  Yakov gave a great sigh and straightened his coat.  “Vitya, you’re a fool to put yourself in the spotlight again so soon, and you’re underestimating how difficult it is to be a good coach.  You’re too _selfish_.”

Victor shrugged and didn’t deny it.  Most of his decisions had been for himself and his own whims.  Even his desire to endlessly surprise the audience was in part for his own ego, although the pressure to outdo himself had become a noose slipping tighter and tighter around his neck as the years passed.  He bit back a laugh.  They couldn’t be any more surprised than they were now.  Having his dynamic outed had set a bar so high nothing he choreographed could ever pass it.

Nothing he choreographed for _himself_.  But, perhaps…


	2. Chapter 2

“Yuuri!  Suck in your gut!”  The back of Minako’s hand tapped his stomach as he held his pose where the last stubborn pounds between him and his December weight rest in the slightest thickening of his waist that he couldn’t even notice.

Minako-sensei sure could, though, so he did as he was told.  It was always easier not to fight against her.  She’d been teaching him since his earliest memories.  Not fighting against her was ingrained, no matter that she was an omega and he’d eventually presented as an alpha.  It didn’t matter what society at large said their roles should be, in Minako-sensei’s studio she was God.  Petty things like class, wealth, and secondary gender were meaningless in her drive to forge her students into graceful, steel-muscled dancers.

Unfortunately for her business, that extended to her students’ parents as well, and Benois de la Danse statuette or no, there were always going to be people who refused to do what an omega said purely on principle.  

“ _Omegas breed, not lead_ ,” as the old slogan went.  Minako-sensei was very fond of ranting about that one when she’d had too much to drink.

Lucky for Yuuri, his mother had been a fan of Minako-sensei’s since they were children.  Her attitude hadn’t been an issue at all.  It’d be nice if more people were like that.  Then, maybe Vict—

A pair of fingers snapped in his face.  “Yuuri, attention.”

“Sorry, sensei,” Yuuri said.  He sighed as he checked his form in the mirrors.  “I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around it.  My mind keeps wandering.”

“Your Victor being an omega?” Minako-sensei asked, frowning.

“Not that,” he said quickly, not wanting Minako-sensei to get the wrong idea.  Yuuri decided he needed a break and walked across the room to get his water.  “Not just that,” he corrected, and took a drink.  “I wanted another chance to skate with him, but now that’s impossible.”   What was he supposed to skate for now?  It’d taken months for him to pull back the tattered shreds of confidence into something useful, and even then it’d been as much for proving his worth to Victor next season as it had been for his own stubborn pride.

But then Victor was banned from competition.  

Yuuri didn’t think his stubborn pride was enough on its own to take him to the GPF podium, but he was still going to try.  He hated losing, and he hated losing to his own anxiety and insecurity more than losing to anything else.  There was so much that Yuuri still had to prove to himself before he could retire.  That’s why he was here at Minako-sensei’s.  He hadn’t trained with her in five years, but perhaps going to the basics, to his roots, would inspire him the way Victor always had.

Returning to the basics had certainly done its job getting him back in shape, at least.

Minako-sensei drummed her fingers on her elbows.  “I heard he disappeared,” she said.  “Probably gone underground to avoid the press.  I can’t blame him.”

Neither could Yuuri, but maybe that was another part of why he was having a hard time concentrating.  It wasn’t that he’d ever gotten close to Victor during his career - they’d barely exchanged greetings! - but the man had nonetheless been a constant in Yuuri’s life since he was twelve.  His goal.  His ideal.

His True North.

Victor hadn’t been seen for over a week, not since the day his unaltered medical records were laid bare for everyone to see, and the Yuuri’s compass needle was spinning.

Minako-sensei clapped her hands.  “Break’s over!  Back to work.  The fat’s not gonna burn itself.”

Right.  He couldn’t afford to worry about Victor when he had so much to worry about himself.

“Yes, sensei.”

***

When Yuuri left the ballet studio later that afternoon it was snowing.

“What the hell?” Minako-groused from the door.  “Isn’t it April?”

“Maybe you should cut back on your drinking if you can’t remember what month it is,” Yuuri said.

“What was that?! Just because you can’t hold your liquor, boy—”

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” Yuuri interrupted, and quickly made his exit, running out onto the sidewalk where the snow had begun to stick to the cold concrete.

The atmosphere as he jogged home was peaceful.  The thick curtain of falling snow muffled all the normal sounds of the seaside town, making it feel like he was the only person there.  Somehow even the occasional passing car didn’t seem to occupy the same space as him.  The snow separated him from the world, put him in his own private space.

He slowed down to a walk and then stopped, standing with his arms outstretched to catch the snowflakes, and enjoyed the silence.  The snowfall even muffled the sounds of the sea.

The last six months had been grueling.  From the stress of qualifying for the Grand Prix and making it to the GPF, to failing himself so spectacularly there in at least three different ways, to coming in at _eleventh_ place at Nationals…

_Eleventh._

He knew he was better than he sometimes thought he was, but at that moment he’d really believed he was nothing more than a dime-a-dozen skater.  What good was he if he had all the skill but none of the ability to use it when it mattered?

Worthless.

If he couldn’t perform with the potential he knew was in him, if, sometimes, he couldn’t see the potential he knew was in himself, was it really there?

An alpha with no self-confidence.  There was a joke in that, but Yuuri didn’t find it funny.

But in the dimming daylight none of his worries mattered.  There was just him, the cold air filling his lungs, and the snow melting on his upturned face.

***

“I’m back!” Yuuri called out when he got back to the Yu-topia Hot Springs Resort.  He knocked the snow off his shoes at the door and was about to come inside when his sister, Mari, showed up with a shovel in hand.

“Good.  You can clean off the walkways,” she said around the cigarette dangling from her mouth.

When Yuuri thought about the reasons he hadn’t come home for five years, helping run the inn had never been one of them.  Perhaps it should’ve been, with all the odd jobs his parents and sister had set him on when he’d shown up.  He suspected it was a kind of punishment for not writing or phoning enough, so he’d done his best not to complain, but if another foreign tourist did unspeakable things to the drains again he was done.

It was unlikely a foreign tourist had done unspeakable things to the walkway only for it to be hidden by the unseasonable snow, so he took the shovel and turned back the way he’d come with only the smallest of sighs.

A couple of inches had fallen, a lot for April in Hasetsu, but he’d been through worse in April in Detroit.  Not that he’d had to shovel it there, that’s what maintenance fees were for, but the point stood.

The snow was wet and heavy, so he had to be careful not to overfill the shovel.  It wouldn’t do to be working so hard for his next season only to pull a back muscle because he was in too much of a rush doing chores.

Yuuri got lost in the rhythm of his work.  Scrape, lift, toss.  Scrape, lift, toss.  The snow was still falling, though far less thickly than when he left the studio, but he still felt as isolated and apart from the world physically as he did in his head.  He was the only one out here, the only sounds this far from the town center his own feet on the walkway and the slide of the metal shovel against concrete.

A bark broke him out of his haze.  “Huh?”  Yuuri looked up as a soft, thudding patter approached him just in time to get knocked over by a flying mass of curly brown fur.  He yelped as he landed in a pile of snow of his own creation, scarf falling down from his face, and laughed as he tried to push a face full of dog away before it got its tongue up his nose.

“Who are you?” he asked, digging his fingers into the fur behind its ears and giving a good scratch.  Under the fur, the dog was surprisingly bony, his hands easily able to follow the defined planes of its skull.  The dog looked like his poor Vicchan, but bigger.  Like--

\--no way.  His hands froze, and the dog let out a long whine until he started scratching again.

No, there were other brown standard poodles in the world.  Lots of them.  Lots and lots of brown standard poodles who didn’t belong to Victor Nikiforov.  It was just a coincidence.  Why would Victor come to an out of the way Japanese hot spring?

“It’s too cold for you to be out here,” he said to the dog.  “And you’re all _wet_.”

The dog stuck its tongue up his nose, and since Yuuri was still scratching its ears there was nothing he could do about it but splutter.

***

“I found a dog!” Yuuri announced when he came back inside.  “Stay,” he told the dog.

It didn’t work.

“Stay,” he tried again, in English, just in case it belonged to a foreign tourist who wasn’t Victor Nikiforov, because there had to be lots of those who weren’t and still owned brown standard poodles, right?

The dog stayed.

Which was proof of _nothing_ since Victor was Russian.  Right?  
 Right.

He got a towel and knelt down to dry the dog off.  It was very patient with him, even lifting its paws one at a time so Yuuri could work out the bits of ice that’d worked their way between its pads.

Vicchan’d hated having his paws cleaned.

“I see you’ve met our new guest!” Yuuri’s father called from across the room with a laugh.  “Friendly, isn’t he?”  
 “New guest?” Yuuri echoed dumbly, rubbing the towel along the inside of the dog’s ears so the damp didn’t give him an infection.

“He came with a handsome foreigner.”

“Handsome foreigner?” Yuuri echoed again.  There were lots of handsome foreigners with brown standard poodles in the world.  Lots.  And lots…?

“He doesn’t speak much Japanese.  He had a phrase book, but his accent was so strong I could barely understand him!  It sounded Russian.”

There were other handsome Russian fo-- oh fuck it.  He was good at denial, but not _that_ good.

“W-where is he?” Yuuri asked, swallowing hard.  His pulse fluttered in his throat.  Nerves, anticipation, excitement, _terror_.  He had to calm down.  It was far more likely that Victor was here by coincidence.  That Victor would be here to see him was laughable.

What would it even be for?  

_‘Hey, Yuuri, now that we’re both disgraces and embarrassments to our countries we should hang out and get to know each other!’_

Even then, there had to be far more worthy disgraces and embarrassments to spend time with.

“He was heading for the hot springs--”

His father hadn’t even finished talking before Yuuri set off, scrambling ungracefully to his feet, socks sliding on the wood floor.

He had to be sure.  Yuuri burst into the bathing room and quickly glanced around.  Nothing but the usual clientele of local men, who all turned to look at the loud intruder in their midst, so he left with the same loud burst of doors and clambering feet he’d arrived in, flinging himself back out into the cold with damp socks and gulping breaths.

There, sitting in the gently steaming water, was none other than Victor Nikiforov, his idol, his inspiration, looking at him with narrowed eyes.  His wet hair was pushed back from his face leaving the elegant lines of it exposed, gently bathed in the orange light of sunset.

In a moment of almost dizzying pointlessness, Yuuri wondered if Victor’s hairline was receding.

Victor stood up, water sluicing off his well-muscled body, so completely the opposite of what an omega’s was supposed to be.  Of course it would be, otherwise what would be the point of using AGH in the first place, but it was something that was impossible for Yuuri not to think about.  It was right there, looming large as life in front of him.

In another pointless moment, he couldn’t stop from noticing other parts of Victor that were, erm, large as life, but it wasn’t as if he knew enough about male omegas to make an educated judgement there.

“Yuuri!” Victor called out, extending his hand to him like an invitation.  “Starting today I’m going to be your new coach!  I’ll make you win the Grand Prix.”  He winked.

Yuuri stared at him, opened and closed his mouth, swallowed.  “Huh?”

“That’s what I’d like to say,” Victor continued, mouth twisting into a sardonic smile.  “But the truth is I think the judges would be harsher on you if I was your coach.  You might not make the podium even if you deserve it.”  He let out a sigh and planted his hands on his hips.  “Not many people like me anymore.”

Yuuri’s tongue felt dry and heavy in his mouth.  “I still like you,” he croaked out after a few awkward, silent moments.

Victor looked at him with open surprise, and then his face brightened until it was like gazing into a rising sun.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should really know better than to try and fic during year end financials while studying for the CPA exam. Stuuuupid!

“This is so _embarrassing!_ ” Yuuri yelled as his feet pounded on the road towards the Hasetsu Ice Castle.

How had he just come out and said that?!

_“I still like you.”_

Like that would even mean anything coming from him instead of someone in Victor’s life who mattered.  But, the way he’d smiled, as if he’d received an unexpected gift, was… well, Yuuri’s face would still be flushed even if it wasn’t unseasonably cold.

He tried to drown out his warring feelings by pushing himself faster until his breaths tore raggedly in his throat.  In and out, the push and drag of air like a painful meditation blurring out his thoughts until he was at the ice castle’s familiar doors.

The sun was down, and he could see his own reflection cast back at him from the glass — not that there was much to see of him, just the narrow strip of his face between his scarf and his hat, and that was almost entirely obscured by the shine of his glasses.  The lights were off in the lobby, but a dim glow suggested someone was still working further inside.

He wanted to go in there.  He wanted to go in and skate figure eights until his brain was filled with nothing but the hiss of blades on ice, the white noise smoothing away the wrinkles of his thoughts.

If he went in now, he’d skate until he collapsed and fell asleep on a bench in the locker room.  Nishigori would find him in the morning, or maybe the triplets would find him and draw things on his face, upload pictures of it onto Instagram, and continue to their campaign to ruin his life.

Thankfully the fuss over him skating Victor’s FS routine had calmed down after a week.  Could he really risk not being so lucky this time?

Either way, he’d have the worst crick in his back and want to die.

Worth it.

He pulled out the key Yu-chan had given him and opened the door, making sure to lock it again behind him.

***

_“And you just left him there?!”_ Yu-chan exclaimed as she leaned over the rail.

It hadn’t taken her long to come out from the back office to check on who’d come to the ice castle after hours.  It took even less time to get Yuuri to spill about Victor’s surprise arrival at the resort.  Over the five years he’d been gone, Yu-chan had apparently perfected an “I-can-tell-you-did-something-stupid-and-you-will-tell-me-what-it-was” look and she wasn’t afraid to use it.  Yuuri supposed with children as headstrong as her daughters it was inevitable.

“Well, um,” Yuuri swallowed, and moved further towards the center of the rink, away from her Mom Glare.  “I didn’t know what to do,” he said after a few moments.  He hadn’t known what to do with Victor, standing there offering, but not offering, to be his coach.  Or something like that.  And then Yuuri’d gone and opened his mouth, and then bolted, irrevocably humiliating himself in front of his idol and inspiration.

Yu-chan exhaled and pushed herself back.  “Do you think it was your video?” she mused.

The possibility that Victor would watch that video of him had him doing breathing exercises under his comforter the first time the thought occurred to him, but it hadn’t been long before he convinced himself the idea was ridiculous.  Why would _Victor Nikiforov_ want to watch him skate a routine that Victor himself had _perfected_.   _Completely_ ridiculous.

Except here was Victor, babbling something about wanting to be his coach, but not wanting to mess up Yuuri’s career, and what else could it be that triggered it?  

Wait.  No.  It was still ridiculous.

But not quite ridiculous enough to keep his heart from ticking faster nervously.

“No way,” Yuuri said.  “He probably thinks I’ll be so desperate because of last season that I’d beg him to coach me in spite of his scandals.  I’m something he can use to get back into the skating world.”

Yu-chan tapped her chin.  “He doesn’t seem like that kind of person in his interviews,” she said.  “Victor’s always very friendly.”

Yuuri glanced away from her.  Lots of people put on different faces in front of the press.  He’d pretty much let Celestino handle things for him because he couldn’t.  Yuuri was pretty much himself in interviews - uninteresting, unforthcoming, and half-panicked.  For some reason journalists usually described him as “aloof”.

Victor had been hiding his secondary gender for over a decade.  What else was “friendly” covering up?

“You need to go back,” she said.

Yuuri made the deadly mistake of looking back over and meeting her eyes.  All the lines of her face were pulled down, like her seriousness was a weight.  He was trapped.  “He’s fine,” Yuuri said.  “Mom will feed him, and there isn’t really a room available, but they’ll find something.”

Yu-chan’s frown grew deeper.  “He came here to see _you_ , Yuuri!  You’re being a bad host.”

“Just,” he exhaled, shoulders rolling forward tiredly, “just another hour.”

She nodded.  “If you aren’t gone by the time I’m done with the ledgers I’m going to call Takashi and have him sic the girls on you.”

“Shouldn’t they be asleep by then?” Yuuri asked.  

The explosive sigh Yu-chan let out was an entire conversation of its own.

***

Yuuri took his time walking back to Yu-topia, not looking forward to whatever talk lay ahead.  He still wasn’t sure what to say, what topics were even safe to bring up, and the echo of Victor saying he wanted to be his coach refused to fade from his mind.

Inevitably, though, he reached the front entrance and pushed open the door with heavy reluctance.  Or maybe it was that the door seemed heavier.  Yuuri sighed as he unlaced his shoes and set them on the floor.  He’d never been good with confrontation, that’s all it was.  Just another way his mind was set against him.  His nerves dragged at him until it made his body weak too.

But.

But Victor was in _his_ territory, even if he was a paying customer.  (He was paying, right?)  That gave Yuuri the advantage.  That gave Yuuri _power_.  Or, at least enough of a boost to finally drag himself into the common dining area.

Victor was curled up on the floor next to one of the tables with his dog with, much to his surprise, Minako-sensei sitting next to him.  There was a half-empty bottle in her hand and a scandalized, wondrous look on her face.  She looked up at Yuuri’s footsteps, pointed a long finger down at Victor, and asked redundantly, “What’s this?”

Yuuri shifted his weight from one foot to the other, watching as Victor shifted closer to the dog and pressed his nose into his fur.  “He wants to be my coach,” Yuuri answered.  “I think.  Sort of.  He also said he shouldn’t.”

“Huh.”

He sat next to Minako-sensei.  Her scent drifted over to him, mild and unobtrusive, mixed with the sweet bite of the plum wine she’d been drinking. It’d always confused him how an omega woman with such a loud personality could have such a calm smell.  His nose would tell him he was safe and comforted even as Minako-sensei’s words terrorized him into action.

“He’s right.  It’s not a very good idea,” she said.  “You’re trying to get your career back on track, not burn it to the ground.”

“I know.  He’s never coached before, so he probably wouldn’t be a very good one,”  Yuuri said.  “Even if people wouldn’t be against me because of their opinions about him, that would make it a bad idea.”  His luck would be their training methods would be _completely_ incompatible, and then where would he be?

Minako-sensei took a drag from her bottle.  “You’d say yes anyways,” she said, and passed the bottle to Yuuri.

Yuuri took the half-full bottle, but didn’t drink any until he’d done a quick calculation of what he’d eaten that day.  He didn’t want to mess up his calorie count, not when he was actually making progress with his weight.  Luckily for his courage, he hadn’t met his cap for the day, so he tipped his head back and downed half of what was left.  Enough to take the edge off, but it shouldn’t be enough to make him do anything embarrassing.  Yuuri knew his limits.  Usually.

He didn’t respond to Minako-sensei.  Of _course_ he wanted to say yes to Victor, but it was practical to say no, even though he hadn’t even started reaching out to other coaches for the upcoming season.  If Victor really was interested in coaching him, and there was no guarantee that he wasn’t just messing with Yuuri, Yuuri _had_ to turn him down.  Victor himself said he’d score worse, and Yuuri had a hard enough time making the podium as it was.  If he repeated those things to himself enough, maybe Yuuri would stop feeling so torn about his decision.

The silence stretched between them, thick, but easy, like a well-loved blanket, as they finished the bottle between them and started on another.  When they were halfway through that one, Yuuri shook his head and put his hand up to stop Minako-sensei from passing it back to him.  He’d definitely gone over his calories by now.

She sighed, ran her fingers over her hair, and set the bottle on the floor with a loud thump.  “I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything else.  You’ve always been fixated on him.  When you were a teenager it was like a bad celebrity crush.”

Yuuri felt his cheeks heat up.  That was… accurate.  If he was being honest, he’d admit that Minako-sensei was underselling it a bit.  The posters, the magazines, the excited flailing with Yu-chan while they watched competitions, yes.  However, basing his life path on the man elevated it from “celebrity crush” to “idolatry” at least.  To him, Victor had been a god, but now here he was, cast from heaven and fallen to earth as mere a human as anyone.

He was even snoring a little, which Yuuri was finding far more endearing than was healthy.

Minako-sensei smirked, baring her teeth slowly like a shark scenting blood in the water.  “Guessing that didn’t change while you were in Detroit.”

“I-- that is,” Yuuri stuttered, scooting back from both Minako-sensei and Victor and giving himself space to breathe, “I admire him as a skater, and he’s—“

Minako-sensei gave him a distinctly unimpressed look.  “It’s not unheard of for an alpha to fall for another alpha.  You’re a small enough part of the population that it doesn’t happen very often but,” she shrugged, “I think we were more surprised that you presented as an alpha than you keeping your crush on one.  Only, now it seems he was never an alpha to begin with.”  She picked up her bottle again.  “Funny the way things turn out sometimes.”

Yuuri frowned and looked down at his knees.  He picked at the small bits of pilling on the fabric of his pants.  “It doesn’t matter to me what his dynamic is,” he said.  “He’s _Victor_.”

Minako-sensei rolled her eyes like it was what she was born for.

Victor stirred at his name, letting out an indistinct murmur, probably in Russian, and then yawned loudly into the top of his dog’s head.  He sat up, dragging his somehow still sleeping dog with him and upsetting the precarious balance his green robe had on his shoulders.  The fabric slid down his arm and exposed a swath of pale skin that glowed in the room’s ambient light.  Victor looked over at them, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm.  “…oh,” he said, looking drowsily at Yuuri.  “You’re back.”

Yuuri nodded.  His mouth was suddenly so dry his tongue stuck to the roof of it.  He tried to swallow, but that only made it worse, so he tried clearing his throat.  Minako-sensei pushed the bottle back towards him, and he tried to ignore it.

“You really want to be his coach?” Minako-sensei asked.  “Our Yuuri here deserves only the _best_.  Can you be that?”

Okay, maybe a bit more wine wasn’t a bad idea.  He groped around for the bottle without looking until Minako-sensei nudged it into his hand.  He gripped the neck tightly, like it was a security blanket and could keep all the evils in the world -- or in his mind -- away.

It was alarming how quickly Victor could go from not realizing he needed to wipe a string of drool off his chin to being straight-backed and alert, mouth stretching out into the same flirty grin that was caught on film by so many photographers at competitions.  “No,” he said.  “I’ve never coached before.  How can I be the best?”  Victor positively _sparkled_ at them.  “I’m a total amateur.”

Yuuri gaped, hand sliding back off the bottle.

Minako-shrugged and looked over at Yuuri.  “Guess you’re still gonna have to look for a coach.”

Yuuri knew how this usually went.  He’d nod, and go with it.  Minako-sensei knew Victor was a bad idea.  Yuuri knew Victor was a bad idea.  Even Victor knew Victor was a bad idea.  Even though he wanted it, with that much force pushing him away from it -- why was it always so hard to assert himself outside the rink?

He wouldn’t cave this time, not to anyone else, and absolutely not to his own fears and excuses.  Yuuri _wanted_.  It wasn’t the equal footing he’d been aiming for, he wouldn’t be able to look Victor in the eye and call himself the man’s peer while they competed against each other on the same ice.  But, maybe with enough work, he’d be looking Victor in the eye and calling himself the man’s peer while competing _with_ him.  He could scrape the pieces of that part of his dream back together into something that was a little different, but maybe just as good.

Yuuri _wanted_ , and he refused to give in or compromise.  Why should what people thought of his coach affect his scores?  He’d prove them wrong.  He would get to the Grand Prix Finals with Victor as his coach.  He’d get to the Grand Prix Finals _despite_ Victor as his coach.

Yuuri fell forward, bracing his hands on Victor’s shoulders.  “Please,” he said, looking straight into Victor’s wide, blue eyes, “be my coach!”

Why did this feel familiar?

...maybe he’d had too much wine after all.


End file.
